Outrage surged through my veins. I wanted to punch him in his smirking face. Before I could respond, Camille forced her way between us. "This is harassment. Back off or I'll taser you."
We finally reached the car. Mia scrambled inside, and I followed. My hands shook so hard I fumbled with the seatbelt twice before it clicked. Camille shut the driver's side door, acting as a shield from the mob.
I locked the doors. The reporters pressed against the windows, their faces distorted through the streaming rain. I accelerated hard, scattering the crowd as I screeched out of the precinct parking lot. The man with the spiky hair jumped back and glared at me, shouting expletives as we passed.
In the rearview mirror, the clumps of jostling reporters grew smaller as we drove down M63. The tires hissed against the wet asphalt, and rain splattered the windshield, the streetlights like smears of amber in the downpour.
The town slid past: brick storefronts, a flag snapping on the pole outside the courthouse, a couple wearing ponchos darting into the Copper Pot diner. Normal life marched on.
My hands gripped the wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I blinked rapidly as tears of anger and frustration welled up.
"I can't believe those animals," I muttered, more to myself than to Mia. "How dare they ambush us like that?"
A soft whimper came from the passenger seat. I glanced over. Mia was curled in on herself, the sleeves of her sweatshirt drawn over her hands as her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
I remembered her chubby toddler hands cupped around a lightning bug, the careful way she'd opened them to let it go.
Without thinking, I pulled into the parking lot of a hardware store. The neon sign flickered weakly. I turned off the engine, reached over, and pulled her into my arms.
"I would never try to hurt her."
"I know, honey. I know."
Still, I couldn't stop the thought that speared through my mind: someone had killed Leah Cho.
The prime suspect was my daughter.
Chapter Eleven
"It's okay," I said, even though nothing felt okay. "I'm here. I've got you."
Mia clung to me desperately. "I'm so sorry," she choked out between sobs. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."
I smoothed her damp hair. "We'll find a way through this."
She pulled back. "You don't understand. Everyone thinks I did it. Even you might think so."
"Mia, look at me." I waited until her eyes met mine. "I love you more than anything in this world, and I don't believe you killed Leah, not for a second."
She wiped at her cheeks angrily. "I should've been there for her. I should've been better…"
"No, don't blame yourself."
The rain drummed on the roof of the car. I wasn't sure if I should say anything else, or if she simply wanted my presence, my comforting touch.
I tried not to think about the damp slippers stuffed at the bottom of her overnight bag, the crusted sand, the way they'd felt cold and heavy in my hands.
We went inside. All of us. Together.
That's what Mia had told the detectives. That's what she'd sworn.
My throat tightened. Maybe I should have mentioned the slippers, should have told King and Callahan, or asked Mia right there in the interrogation room, with Camille present, with everything on the record.
But I hadn't.
I'd kept my mouth shut and let my daughter lie.
The questions the reporter had screamed at me echoed in my skull.What kind of mother are you, anyway?
